


The Boxcar Children Aren't Alright

by kidskylark



Category: The Blackout Club (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Found Family, Gen, POV Second Person, Present Tense, Runaway children, Threats of death and violence to children
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-01-12 05:59:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18440474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kidskylark/pseuds/kidskylark
Summary: My friends have been writing fanfiction for The Blackout Club and their TBC OCs, so I'm giving it a shot, too. This will be a compilation of quieter moments of "boxcar life" with the runaway kids. Characters that are not mine typically belong to said friends, who will be credited for their cool concepts.





	1. Debrief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You learn more about the Blackout Club every day. Sometimes you learn too much, and then, when you squint, things start to look a little strange.
> 
> Archer and Astro wrap up a routine mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Archer Folley](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Archer%20Folley%20\(Original%20TBC%20Character\)) belongs to [Skegulium.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skegulium/pseuds/Skegulium) You can read more about him in their fic, here: **[Let Us Be Bold.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18022100)**

"Well maybe it wouldn't hurt so much if you'd just sit _still!_ " The kid bandaging your leg leans heavily on your foot, pinning it against your overturned milk crate "exam table," effectively holding you in place. You grimace, but you don't try to escape. Instead, your fidgeting now moves to your hands. They sink into the diamonds of the milk crate and grip there, like cat claws. You let Archer work in peace for a few more seconds before you start feeling the urge to move again.

 

Thankfully, he's ahead of you. "There. Better?"

 

It's not, really. Your clothes are still bloodied, and your pants are torn badly on your injured leg. You don't have to explain it to your parents anymore. On the flipside, it means you now only have basketball shorts to wear, so you'll need to scrounge up something before the cold weather sweeps in again. But beyond cosmetics, yes, you feel much better. You beam at Archer, who helps you back to your feet - or foot, singular, as you gingerly avoid your injured one.

 

The boxcars are cramped, and without much room for passing, you have to push yourselves flat against the wall to let others walk by. You try not to bump tables, jostle photos or pinboards. You have only limited success. With one hand against the wall, you can limp across the car until you get to the computer. You and Archer start sifting through your files.

 

"You wanted to know about CHORUS?"

 

You pull up one of the pictures on your phone. He pulls up one to match. Yours is a suitcase, and his is a duffel, both branded sleeper-red, with white letters. You didn't know why you had to take pictures of it. He just told you to do it, with no time to stop and explain.

 

"Take a look," he says, and gestures to the screen.

 

When the file explorer loads, you see picture after picture of CHORUS logos, on every imaginable item. Supply boxes, equipment, and bags, and bags, and bags. Some are open, but the contents are alien, unfamiliar. Some only allow you to imagine what's inside them. Archer plugs in his phone, and more appear, all from your mission today.

 

"Back up  _ everything, _ " he cautions, "if today's mission didn't prove the value of that." You went through hell to get a club member's phone back. Had you failed, you would still have all the evidence in another location, but it's better not to leave the device in the hands of the cult.

 

Archer hands you the upload cord, and he keeps talking.

 

"The sleepers always talk about 'the song.' CHORUS makes sense for that, doesn't it? Choirs sing. And where  _ else _ are they going to get all the tech they have? You saw the underground. With a monopoly on electronics here in the Quiet Zone, they'd have plenty of reliable revenue, more than enough to do all the stuff they do."

"And?" you sign.

"And what?"

  
  
You spread your fingers apart until they look like puzzle pieces, and mime pushing them together in a way that they completely miss. It doesn't fit. Something is missing.

"Well, that's why we need more information," Archer replies, undeterred. He flips through his notebook until he can show you page after page of information. Your eyes glaze over after page three. "We're collecting more evidence every day! If anyone is going to get to the bottom of it, it'll be us. We just need more time."

But there's one more thing that doesn't quite make sense. You pick up your phone, and when it's finished transferring data, you hold it up for Archer to see.

"Uh... nice background?" he tries, confused. It's a sailboat on the sea where you grew up, with sky and water both filled with stars.

You shake your head, and mask your screen with your hand. One finger points to the emblem in metal, just below the phone's earpiece. Just like the bags and every piece of equipment, it, too, reads "CHORUS."

Archer doesn't have a good answer for that. He frowns, and looks back at the computer.

"We don't have a lot of other options, Astro. What are we supposed to do? As long as we're careful..."

If you can  _ stay  _ careful, and that only works until you can't. Archer, with all his research, doesn't know everything, but you catch him writing it down in his book. He'll find out eventually. He always does. You just hope, foolish as that hope might be, it won't be  _ him _ you have to rescue from the bowels of Redacre tomorrow.


	2. Act Casual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a family is three teens, a pair of sunglasses, and a crock full of mismatched lies.
> 
> Runaway kids from the Blackout Club need to get their food somewhere. Anya, Tan and Astro take their turn on errand duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Lavanya "Anya" Littlefeather](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Original%20Character\(s\)%20-%20Lavanya%20Littlefeather) belongs to [pigeonfancier.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonfancier/pseuds/pigeonfancier) Read more about her here: [**like a fire in the dark**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18054875) and [her "audio log" diary, **waterdrumming.**](https://waterdrumming.tumblr.com)
> 
> [Angela Tan](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Angela%20Tan) belongs to [tangelotime.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangelotime/pseuds/tangelotime) You can read more about them in their fic, here: **[Identity Theft.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633808/chapters/44187004)** tangelotime also wrote a lovely Stalker POV fic, unrelated to Tan, here: [**Eyes That Watch.**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18400403)

It's errand day.

 

You take a few bikes. Nothing with a bell, and nothing too noisy. Yours has a seat on the back for one extra person. It's just like a mission, you always tell yourself, just like a mission, but in broad daylight.

 

And god, the daylight.

 

Busy nights have taught you stealth. You stay silent. You stay out of sight. Light means death, means exposure, it means a lucid will see you and hunt you to the ends of the earth or the end of time, whatever comes first. You used to think the sun was warm. Now, it just burns.

 

You can't shake that, even when you're not on Hoadley. From the looks of it, your friends are just as nervous. You still park your bikes in the shadows, even though the bike rack closest to the storefront is empty and waiting. You still stay a little longer under the trees than you really need to.

 

"Right!" says Tan, standing a little taller in their shock-red. "Are we going, or what?"

 

Tan isn't quite the definition of "subtle," but they're sharp as a blade, and just as quick. Like you, they're a transplant, but they've been up to no good much longer than you. They know their way around a roof, and they laugh in the face of danger. Your mother would say they watched too much TV.

 

Beside you, Anya fixes her bun. She's taller than you by just a hair, and with her sunglasses on, she looks older, too. With both your partners raring to go, you sling your string bag over one shoulder, and you muscle up, too.

 

"Let's go," you sign, and follow up with a layman's signal of "come on."

 

Anya isn't your kind of quiet, back at the boxcar. She's just serious. The five-foot radius around her is a strict no-nonsense zone, but she still _talks._ Today, though, she's playing "oldest kid," leaving you and Tan to pick up the slack, and while you would love to leave the talking wholly to Tan -

 

" _Finally!_ " they all but yell, and start racing for the door.

 

You and Anya break into a run after them.

 

The shopping center is flat and sprawling. All the stonework is new, with mottled grays and blues, and bold neon signs with neat edges and curves. Tan said it opened shortly before they moved in, so the only water damage is near the gutters and drain pipes. You only spy one bird-nest, in the middle of an "A." Your shoes slap on the pavement and echo down the shaded walkway when you finally catch up to Tan.

 

"No," you sign, and you shake your head to punctuate it. _"Quiet."_

  
  
"Easy for you to say," Tan shoots back, as if that means anything.

 

"Low profile, or..." You mime cutting across your neck. They roll their eyes, but you're trying to be serious. If you draw too much attention, you'll get The Question, and that's the _last_ thing you need.

 

Your list is far from standard. It starts with all the trappings of a normal grocery list. Then, the 14-year-olds got their hands on it.

 

* * *

 

  * Bread
  * Peanut butter
  * Jerky
  * Crackers
  * ~~Spinach~~ [It has been crossed out several times, in several different colors. Someone drew a sickened face.]
  * Carrots
  * Toilet paper
  * Soap
  * Socks
  * Cheetos
  * Ginger ale
  * ~~Pop~~    ~~Soda~~    ~~Coke~~    **Soda**
  * Extra string
  * Marshmallow fluff
  * ~~Ice cream~~
    * We don't have a fridge, dumbass.
    * It's to eat on the way home!



* * *

 

And just like in missions, you need to stick together, just in case. Naturally, this means Tan heads off on their own, and again, you have to catch up. You work quicker together, gathering items into your two handheld grocery baskets and moving from aisle to aisle, resisting the urge to vault over them, until every item is checked off.

 

Then comes the final challenge. In the home stretch of your quest, only one thing lies between you and freedom, the worst of all your trials so far: the checkout counter.

 

You and Tan work with the items. Anya has to handle the money. You've been tracking the numbers, so you think you know the total, but you could be wrong. You work silently and quickly, hoping you won't be noticed, but alas, it's all for naught. You're a captive audience, subject to the throes of small talk.

 

"Hello," the cashier starts. You can feel their eyes on you, looking you over. It makes your skin crawl more than a sleeper's breath on your face.

 

"Hi!" Tan says, and you echo a second, hoarser greeting. Anya says nothing.

 

"You seem a little young to be here alone..."

 

The Question is coming. You feel it just before it happens.

 

"Where are your parents?"

 

If you weren't 15, if Tan and Anya weren't just as young, maybe you would have a little more foresight. If you weren't spending your nights sleepless, and waking up just as tired daily, maybe you would have thought to make a plan.

 

You didn't, so what comes out of your mouth is, "home," and what comes from Tan's is, "working!"

 

The cashier scans another item, painfully slow, and tries to search your faces. "They're both _at home_ and _working?_ "

 

"They live together!" You want to crawl into a cave somewhere and stay there for the rest of eternity. You're mortified. Tan is undeterred, and apparently, absolutely fucking shameless. "We're a multi-family household, from out of town! Their parents are home today, but mine are working. We got sent together for safety. Stranger danger!"

 

And mercy of all mercies, the cashier actually buys it. "I got you," they say, and go back to scanning items at a normal speed. You clutch at your jacket to try to calm your hastened breath. "That's pretty unconventional. You don't see multi-family households around here."

 

"Well, it's busy," Tan says with a grin, "so it's definitely not for everyone, but we love it! Right?"

 

"Right," you corroborate, more breathless than usual. Your eyes keep flicking towards the door. Anya glances at you from behind her sunglasses. Just a few more moments! You're almost free!

 

The cashier bags the last item, and you practically race for the end of the counter, grabbing fistfuls of thin plastic.

 

"There's your total. Would you like to make a donation to Stonetower County Children's Hospital?" Anya shakes her head, and the cashier closes out their script with a "Alright, here's your change."

 

A hand grabs yours, and you instantly jump - but it was just the cashier. Just the cashier, during the day, under all the fluorescent lamps and sunlight of the windowed grocery storefront. They lock eyes with you and you stand straighter, putting on a brave face.

 

"Your receipt is in the bag," they finish, and shove the bags back towards you.

 

Tan grabs two, and you grab the last one. Anya rejoins you, sorts the money into her two pockets, and the three of you leave before the cashier decides to call the manager.


	3. A Game of Risk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He touched the BUTT!" - _Finding Nemo, 2003_
> 
> Sophie and Astro test their demon, because they're dumb teenagers who do dumb teenager things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sophie St. Cloud](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Sophie%20\(Original%20TBC%20Character\)) [[Alt]](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Sophie%20St*d*%20Cloud) belongs to [Darkforesttrails.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkforesttrails/pseuds/Darkforesttrails) You can read more about them in their fic, here: **[There Are Worse Things In The Dark.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18064409)**

It always starts with a dare. When you spend the hours before dawn in all kinds of dangerous escapades, the safer ones seem tame. Kids get careless, but most dangerous of all, they get  _ bored. _ You're in the middle of unscrewing the grate on the pipe when you hear Sophie, at the mouth of the cave, ponder, "Hey, I wonder what's behind the red doors anyway."

They mean the "Shape doors," painted red, with white emblems on them, always watching. The Shape - or a Lucid - could emerge from them at any moment. You don't actually know where they go. You're usually too busy avoiding them to find out. You're holding a screwdriver in your mouth, so you don't make any audible reply, though that isn't unusual for you. Sophie looks back to catch your gesture of "Go on?"

"Archer tried to find out, and that ended about as well as you'd expect - breaking and entering to work on these things." Archer has a habit of getting into trouble for the pursuit of knowledge. He's clever, but he's just as reckless as the rest of you, and he gets into just as many messes, if not more.

Sophie looks out at the door embedded in the side of the cliff. Its presence always made you wonder if the Shape  _ knew _ this was your secret exit. Then, after a moment of thought, they ask, "What if I touch the door?"

You know the correct answer. The Shape is a very real threat. If one of you was taken, the other one would need to revive them, and they would be hunted while doing it. It's a danger you delicately skirted for the whole of your mission tonight.

You know the correct answer, but you still nod yes - do it. Sophie, backlit by the moonlight in the valley far below,  _ grins. _

"What do I get for it?"

You consider. What's the price of risking possession? "I take your chores this week."

"Deal!" From the speed of their answer, they would have done it anyway. You put down the grate on the damp rock floor, grab a flashbang and creep to the cave's entrance.

By the time you get there, Sophie is already gone. You creep a little further up the walkway, watching them run fearlessly towards the red door. They skid to a stop in front of it and stare down the menacing eye, shoulders back, chin high, as if it wasn't paint on a door. They don't even look back at you. They lift their hand, steel themselves, lay it on the door, and -

\- nothing happens.

The world holds still for another second, then two. The only sound is a sleeper's senseless whispering to the night air. Sophie looks at you, palm still flat against the door. Nothing continues to happen. You hear no howl of the infuriated Shape, no shaking of the earth, and absolutely nothing happens.

 

Sophie pulls their hand off the door. "Anticlimactic," they announce. The word ricochets off the cliffside and resonates into the valley. They brush off their hands, scattering Shape Essence into the fog, and start their triumphant march back to the cave.

 

Behind them, the red door opens.

 

Light streams from its entrance. The wind howls and the wood hits rock as it's flung open, splintering, and you don't have time to see the distortion of light through the Shape's body, because Sophie  _ football tackles _ you, giving them a bad ankle and you bruises for life. They scramble off you and you shoot back to your feet, running for the exit pipe, and only then do you remember the tripwires in your bag. You only have time to set up one, and you toss it haphazardly at the mouth of the cave. Sophie is breathing hard but they don't have time to recover. You have to leave  _ now. _

 

Only when you're through the pipe, safely outside Redacre, do you take a moment to breathe. The only sound for several moments is panicked lungs vying desperately for air.

 

Sophie glares at you.

 

"On second thought, you owe me chores for  _ life! _ "


	4. Stranger Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't talk to strangers, stay out of the woods, and _always_ be careful what you wish for.
> 
> Astro ponders daimons, part 1.

You hear the daimons whisper in your sleep. The others call them "Voices," with a capital V. The kids talk about their dreams like they mean something. Booming voices rattle in your skull and bring you close enough to wakefulness to worry whoever is watching you in those hours. What they _say_ stays with you, long through the morning and long into the night.

 

It's hard to say you don't trust them. Maybe you do. After all, what else _is_ there to trust? You couldn't trust your parents. That's why you ran. You think you can trust your friends, because they're all you have, but some of them are tangled with the daimons too. You've seen, once or twice, the bodies of kids you vaguely recognize as they wander Redacre, possessed by whatever force they thought was better than the Shape. Is it really better, you wonder, when it's just another way of losing your autonomy? Those are big questions for a fifteen year old, but no adults are here to scold you for it, so you can think them all you want.

 

You stare yourself down in the mirror. It's dirty and grimy, stained with god knows what, damaged by humidity and every imaginable force. Your own image is hazy, but it's easy to make out your features: electric-blue hair, gray hoodie, pale skin. It's you, unmistakably.

 

You bunch up your jacket sleeve until it covers your fingers. Leaning carefully over the makeshift altar, so as not to bump the custard dish, you touch the fabric to the glass over your face. Slowly, you rub. You apply only enough pressure to make sure the fabric contacts, but it doesn't help. You try pressing harder. The mirror rocks.

 

Why keep this thing around if it doesn't do you any good? You can't see anything, not really. The candles in the sleeping car only barely illuminate you, and the glass is busted. Frustrated, you spit on the textured wrist of your jacket sleeve and try once more, this time holding the mirror in place when you rub. It looks like you're making progress, when the little circles you make start coming back cleaner. You test them with a look, and sure enough, you can see yourself in all your details: thin lips, round cheeks, sharp nose, and **ᴇʏᴇs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴜʀɴ ʟɪᴋᴇ ꜰɪʀᴇ.**

 

You rush to cover up the clean patch again, trying to undo _whatever_ you did. When you stumble backwards on the creaky floor, the mirror is just as inscrutable as it was before. The light you saw reflected in your own eyes is nowhere to be found amidst the blurry shape you _think_ might be your face. Nothing else gets through.

 

With no one else in the car, all you can think to do is sign "no" to the mirror. No - not today, and maybe not ever. Not until you know whatever bargain you might make is better than what you have. If the subject in the mirror is incomprehensible, maybe that's better. Maybe seeing clearly is worse.

 

The daimons might not be _gods_ , and they might not be _demons_ either, but you've heard enough stories about the devil's deals to understand their message: _Always_ read the fine print.


	5. What It Cost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aren't you a little young to sell your soul? Why yes. Yes, they are.
> 
> Astro ponders daimons, part 2.

You punched the Lucid in the teeth. You can't see their _real_ teeth, because their faces are blurry and fucked up, and you weren't trying to look. The sharp enamel cut into your knuckles and the meat of your fingers, and your hand bleeds long after the injury, open and sore, red and messy.The smell of iron and dirt clings to you even after you changed your clothes.

 

Your stunt almost cost you dearly. Again, you think, you owe your sanity to Sophie, who stunned your captor just before you met the Shape. Your desperate attempts to break free would have doomed you quicker without them.

 

Tonight's was a hard, ill-fated mission. Despite your best efforts, it was like every force in Redacre was working against you. Even the moon was too harsh, of all things, and its brilliance made you visible more than once. Sophie tried their best, but tonight, the Sleepers all knew where you were. They were ready for you. If the whispers on the wind meant anything, maybe it meant they had an ally.

 

The Voices. It must be them. Speaks-As-One is wisening to your tricks. You glare at your fuzzy reflection in the mirror, where you're made only of colored shapes. How are you supposed to compete with that? You're one kid. Your club is only several kids. What's a group of sleep-deprived teenagers to a vengeful god? A light snack, maybe, if you're lucky.

 

The daimons aren't going away, you realize. It doesn't matter if you reject them. It doesn't matter if you stay away from them, because they aren't just _here_ , they're _pursuing_ you, like rabid animals. You can choose one... or you can let one choose you.

 

Your blood drips into the offering dish. When the drop hits ceramic, the _ping_ resonates much louder than it should. You look in the mirror, watching the way your own dark blue eyes look back at you in the hazy glass, and for a moment, the only sound is your breath.

 

_Ping._

 

When you ate pavement that day, you dug up someone's garden by accident. Your hands, desperate for anything to grab, pulled daffodils out of the flowerbed by the roots. You shoved them in your pocket to dispose of later, having no time to hide the evidence, but you never got the chance. You grip them in your hand now, and despite a few cracks in their stems, a few cuts in their leaves, they're still daffodils. They stayed intact, somehow. The dirt on them stings your open wounds and scatters across the altar. The candle flames flicker.

 

 _Narcissus._ They aren't native to Virginia, but that doesn't stop anyone here. If it makes the garden look colorful, who cares? They're vain flowers, matching their name, and their roots are toxic to the taste. The bulbs drop into the bowl with a _thunk_. The blossoms spill over onto the table, weeping for their loss of ground.

 

Another drop of blood falls into the bowl after them. _Ping._

 

You step back. You close your eyes. Where the mirror once stood in view, behind your eyelids, bright red text declares one single word to you:

 

**ʟɪsᴛᴇɴɪɴɢ.**

 

"I don't know if you're out there," you say, shaky and hoarse, "but I know my purpose now. I would ᴅɪᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍʏ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅs, to save them."

 

Your voice chokes up, giving out like an old motor. You lift your hands and sign the last part of your desperate plea:

 

"If you're there, help me to help them. Please."

 

When you open your eyes, the bowl is empty.


	6. What You Left Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're leaving your family to save them, you think. If you say it, over and over, inside your head, it feels a little less like betrayal.
> 
> Astro says goodbye in the only way they can. Takes place, chronologically, before most of the other scenes in this, so we'll call it a flashback.

The days before your escape were some of the hardest in your life. You would wake in a panic, more than before, full of fear that your plans were known. You never spoke them aloud, you tried to be careful, and even though you _knew_ you had your club behind you, _knew_ where to go and what to do, it didn't make the process any easier.

 

When you come downstairs, your father is already gone. Mother is sitting at the table, writing a grocery list. "Hadar," your mother says, with an "H" held at her chest. Her hair is wavy, only because she has so much of it. Its weight pulls out her curls. It's dark brown, like yours before you dyed it, and her thick eyebrows frame brown eyes. "Do you have study group tonight?"

 

That's your lie, spelled out in her hands. You can't tell her where you're _really_ going, but if you say nothing, she would worry. Guilt overwhelms you. Fear is stronger. You tuck your notebook under your arm to sign "yes" in answer, nodding your hand. If you told her, would she understand? Would she tell anyone? You have no way of knowing. She's a coder. She never told you if she worked directly for CHORUS. You were too afraid to ask.

 

"Edgar cooked - " she gestures to a tupperware. You passed it when you came downstairs, but on closer inspection, you see M&M cookies inside. Their candy shells are cracked from the oven's heat. Your mom gestures again to catch your eyes. "Take them to your friends!" You hold the box in your shaking hands, and for a moment, for three solid seconds, you almost tell her everything.

 

"Yeah," you mouth, because your scratchy, hardly-used voice dies in your throat. Your mother doesn't hear it. You bring your arm to your face like you might sneeze, and wipe the tears in your eyes on your shirt sleeve. You sign a quick affirmation, grab the tupperware, sling your bag over your shoulder and start for the door before you can change your mind. If you don't look at her, she can't talk to you, but that's...

 

That's cruel, to shut your mother out on your last day at home. Even if it hurts, you can't do that to her.

 

You stand stone-still in the doorway, looking at the painted wood, looking _through_ it. You close your eyes. You breathe in.

 

And you turn around, facing your mother, one last time.

 

"Thank you," you sign to her. She beams at you, puts down her pen, and dodges the table as she hurries to the front hall to hug you.

 

"Love you," she signs in shorthand. You try to memorize her smile.

 

"Love you," you mirror. You try not to choke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Astro's mother is Deaf. Astro is a kid of a Deaf adult (koda), but is hearing. I'm neither a coda nor Deaf, so I'm, respectfully, not getting into the nitty-gritty of their experience in those identities. This collection will have a strong focus on Astro's work with the Blackout Club and adventures, but where it intersects with their identity and history as a koda, that will come up.
> 
> Astro chooses not to speak most of the time because they have dysphoria with their voice, and because they grew up signing, so they decided that was what they wanted to do. They also write things in a notebook/on a whiteboard sometimes. This detail is impacted by their background as a koda, but is 100% a choice they make. They will also, at times, choose to speak [(like they did in "Act Casual").](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18440474/chapters/43684961) They just don't prefer it.
> 
> Astro's birth name is Hadar Ivanenko, and that's the name their mother uses. "Astro" is a nickname that they use with their friends. If you're wondering what you should use as a reader, I'd advise continuing to use "Astro," like I do.


	7. Spelling It Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teenagers are better philosophers than Plato ever was.
> 
> Anya and Astro discuss their formless "friends," and whether they might more aptly be called "foes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Lavanya "Anya" Littlefeather](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Original%20Character\(s\)%20-%20Lavanya%20Littlefeather) belongs to [pigeonfancier.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonfancier/pseuds/pigeonfancier) Read more about her here: [**like a fire in the dark**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18054875) and [her "audio log" diary, **waterdrumming.**](https://waterdrumming.tumblr.com)

"A." You form the letter in your hand. It's a fist, fingers curled in, thumb neatly to the side. You present it to Anya.

  
  
She mirrors you, with a little more struggle. "A." She's not very talkative. That's why you find each other, off in the corners, or sitting outside the boxcars, under the stars, like tonight. The moon is rising, twilight is just beginning to fall in the pine grove, and the crepuscular song of wildlife is the only sound for miles.

  
  
"N." Your first two fingers wrap around your thumb. You see it, sometimes, like a towel hanging over a rod. You think about the texture of heavy beach towels from one of your many homes. You could walk down to the shore anytime you wanted, but walking  _ back _ was the tricky part, because your feet would be coated in sand. You could never avoid it, no matter how hard you try. Better, then, to lose your shoes, to carry them in your hand, and walk barefoot on the hot asphalt and the wild thyme.

 

"N." She forms it without tucking her thumb under. She realizes her mistake as you're lifting your other hand to correct it. She likes to correct herself.  She found the club on her own, Xav didn't drag her here, he says, and it's hard to imagine any other answer. She goes against the flow without hesitation, and when all the other kids talk about the daimons like old friends, Anya says they're dangerous, and warns that they don't seem to  _ care _ about a bunch of kids in a boxcar. You're fifteen, and she's not even fourteen, but she  _ looks _ like she's been carrying all the knowledge of the world. 

You wonder what happened to her. You wonder what she left behind, because everyone leaves behind something. You've never seen her go home.

"Y." Your thumb and little finger extend out from your closed fist. If you lift your first finger, it becomes "love you." You're so used to saying it at home. Boxcar life doesn't allow for that. These kids wouldn't understand. You could tell them you love them, that you care, and they'd laugh you off.

"Y." You wonder what Anya laughs at. You don't think you've ever heard her do it. Can you ask her about that? Would she say? Is it selfish to ask about laughter, when you're all under the same kind of danger, just trying to scrape by? Is it possible to laugh, in these conditions?

"A." It circles back. It always comes back to A. "A-N-Y-A," you spell for her, moving slow. Sign language is fast when you know how to use it, but that doesn't help her learn. "You're Anya." She spells it back to you, letter by letter, and you grin when she hits the last one.

"All done," you pronounce, writing in your notebook, "Unless you want to learn your full name?"

"Maybe another night." Anya leans back in her chair. They're old beach chairs, borrowed* (*permanently) from your garage. The metal pipe frame creaks with the motion, but the colorful bands that form the seat are sturdy.

In the peaceful quiet, you write a new question: "Are you serious about the daimon thing?"

"Killing them?" She lifts her eyes from the paper to meet yours. "Yeah." She says it simple, like neither of you hear the whispers of your clubmates in the late nights, kneeling in front of the altar. She says it like it's obvious. Past arguments have steeled her opinions against any kind of quake.

That means you won't shake her by asking. "Why?"

She shrugs. "D'you really think they're looking out for you, Astro? D'you  _ really _ think they're looking out for  _ any _ of us?"

You  _ want _ to believe it, you think. That doesn't make it true. "No," you admit, dragging your pen. You wonder if the daimons can see you now. You wonder if they care to look.

 

She seems surprised. "Bold," she says, but doesn't mean it. She is just as convinced of your opinion as you are, which means not at all. "So what d'you think?"

You think a lot of things. You don't know the words for most of them. "They're bigger than us," is what you come up with. " _ Much _ bigger." You underline "much" twice before moving on. "They don't play by human rules, and they don't like us, most of them."

" _ All _ of 'em," Anya corrects. "Have you ever heard even  _ one _ speak fondly of a human?"

"Some pretend." As an afterthought, you change the period to a question mark. Anya nods her agreement.

"The way I see it," she says, "they're a package deal. Where one goes, the others follow. If you can't have one without  _ all _ of them, and everything that comes with them - the lucids, sleepers, the Shape - then we shouldn't have any at all."

"Can we do that?" you ask. "They're made by us, after all."

"If we made them, we can un-make them too," Anya declares, and it sounds like poetry, if you ever heard it.

You let it linger. The air is filled with crickets, mosquitos, and the far-off sounds of a night train. It echoes through the conifers like the ghost of your boxcar's engine, before it was abandoned.

When you write again, you have one more question: "Do you really think we can?"

Anya doesn't seem bothered with the hypotheticals. She concerns herself only with what  _ she _ can do. She just lifts her chin and says, "Do we have another option? We gotta try, else what are we doing out here? Rotting? I'm not waiting around for some voice to come save us, and if you're smart, you won't either."


	8. Friendly Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why aim at your enemies when you _could_ aim at your friends?
> 
> Sophie trial-runs their new Hero Item, much to Astro's dismay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sophie St. Cloud](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Sophie%20\(Original%20TBC%20Character\)) [[Alt]](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Sophie%20St*d*%20Cloud) belongs to [Darkforesttrails.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkforesttrails/pseuds/Darkforesttrails) You can read more about them in their fic, here: **[There Are Worse Things In The Dark.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18064409)**

"That's unsafe," you sign, astutely, as you watch Sophie toss a taser three feet in the air.

 

They defend themselves without missing a beat. "I'm testing its weight! It's a very important process, don't interrupt!"

 

It smacks back down in their palm, and you try to hide your flinch. Inside the boxcar, you had perched on the edge of the prep table to wait for them, but you're reconsidering this decision. "It isn't a toy." You're channeling your mother in your signs, with stiffened movement. You need to give off a  _ serious _ air! Sophie could hurt themselves, or  _ you. _

 

If they care, they don't show it. They test-fire the taser and you nearly jump out of your skin.

 

"No," they agree, "but we should make sure it  _ works, _ right? What if we get out in the neighborhood and the battery dies?"

 

"It might, if you keep using it."

 

"It's a big battery! Look at this monster!" They crack open the battery compartment to show you, but they don't actually turn the taser  _ off _ . Instead of looking at the sparking device shoved in your face, you lean back far enough that you topple off the table,  _ thunk _ ing onto the floor, then being bruised by your own grappling hook.

 

"That was your fault," you sign from the floor.

 

"Was not!"

 

"Yes!"

 

"No!"

 

You yelp when swift pain overtakes your senses, first from the electricity coursing through your body, then from bruising as your limbs hit the floor a second time. For a moment, you aren't in control of any part of your body. You can't even fight it. When your vision clears, Sophie is standing over you, and for the first time in the past fifteen minutes, the taser is no longer sparking -

 

"What the  _ hell!" _ you croak.

 

\- only because it  _ can't _ spark. Because Sophie used the taser on  _ you. _

 

"You just have a very tazeable face!" they inform you.

 

Your limbs still feel like jelly, so you continue to lay on the floor until Sophie has to step over you to open the boxcar doors. You fall when you try to get up the first time, and refuse all attempts your partner makes to help you, because they just  _ tazed _ you, you're not going to trust them!

 

"What makes a face taze-worthy?" you ask, when your hands will work again. You have dirt on your back. You can't reach it, and you just look ridiculous trying, so Sophie laughs at you.

 

"Well, people with blue eyes, and blue hair..."

 

"You're describing me!"

 

Sophie grins. "Exactly! See, you get it! Beside, you  _ still _ owe me from the Door Incident."

 

"I don't think tasers count for that!" you protest.

 

"You didn't say they  _ didn't, _ " Sophie argues, in peak teenager fashion.

 

You huff, and make a face. They have a point. In a court of teenager law - which is to say, a club dinner - they might just sway the jury.

 

"Fine," you concede. "But please save it for the Lucids."

 

They check the taser battery - low - check the time - late. They shrug, grinning ear to ear. "No promises!"


	9. Countertenor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's never too late to learn music, and there's always a place for you!
> 
> Astro botches a mission. Sad trombone.mp3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Angela Tan](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Angela%20Tan) belongs to [tangelotime.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangelotime/pseuds/tangelotime) You can read more about them in their fic, here: **[Identity Theft.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633808/chapters/44187004)** tangelotime also wrote a lovely Stalker POV fic, unrelated to Tan, here: [**Eyes That Watch.**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18400403)
> 
> [Xaviul Neptune](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Original%20Character\(s\)%20-%20Xaviul%20Neptune) belongs to [xavi1ul.]() You can read more about him in [pigeonfancier's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonfancier/pseuds/pigeonfancier) fic, here: [**like a fire in the dark**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18054875).
> 
> [Lavanya "Anya" Littlefeather](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Original%20Character\(s\)%20-%20Lavanya%20Littlefeather) belongs to [pigeonfancier.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonfancier/pseuds/pigeonfancier) Read more about her here: [**like a fire in the dark**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18054875) and [her "audio log" diary, **waterdrumming.**](https://waterdrumming.tumblr.com)

Possession feels like a fever dream. 30 seconds in, you're trapped in your own mind, aware, but only loosely. You see through your eyes, but the words that come out of your mouth aren't yours, and every time you try to run to your friends, seeking safety, you only run away. Your legs feel like someone shoved steel rods into your bones, and hooked them up to a machine. They're so heavy that  _ you _ can't move them, but that doesn't stop their movement.

 

The house is a hotbed. You fucked up, and you fucked up  _ bad. _ Tan, with no recourse and a mark on their head, resorts to a flashbang, unable to untangle themselves, and runs down the street as fast as they can. They can't say anything to you, you remember. Anything you hear, anything you see, could put them in danger now. They can't risk that.

 

And your other friends, Xaviul and Anya - where are they now? Do they know what happened? Would Tan tell them? They were working the upper street, hunting the downed drone. They might be too busy. They might not notice. They might just  _ run. _

 

One minute passes. "Safety," you think, maybe isn't as close as you thought. You thought "safety" was the boxcar, but how long have you really known these kids? A few months? Maybe the adults are right. Do they really care about you? How do you know?

 

You had memory, once, of missions, working together in harmony with them, but the more you recall, the more it all seems discordant. Maybe it was just convenient to them. They've helped you in the past, yes, but it always served them. It was selfishly motivated, you're more sure of that now. That's human nature - to be selfish. It's a flaw.

 

The Lucids, though, wanted to be kind to you. They want to take care of you, they said so! And you  _ spurned _ them. You rejected their help because of false whisperings in your ears. How cruel that was! How sharp! They can forgive you, though, in time, they say. The Song is a gentle melody. It heals all it touches. When the vibrations of the great instrument resonate in the cavity of your chest, yes - you think you believe it.

 

Three minutes. The first sixty seconds dragged on, but a glance at your phone's clock says these have been quicker. You were anxious, too anxious,but you feel calmer now. The life of a runaway is so dangerous, so harsh. You were fooled into thinking you were safe.  _ This _ is safety - the Song, the Voice. It's catchy, too. It fills you with peace and energy, the feeling of connection to something so much bigger.

 

That's what you wanted, ultimately, wasn't it? You joined the club because you wanted to be part of something. You wanted community, but you were too short-sighted to see that community was always there, welcoming you with open arms. How foolish you were, to reject it! How unkind, how selfish, to march to a different beat, to sow strife in others. Your poor mother, your father, they both must be worried sick and you did that to them. You hurt so many people, but now you have the opportunity to repair it. You can make it better now.

 

Five minutes. You hear nothing. The Sleepers whisper, and the Lucids speak. Some of them are discontent. They say the forbidden words - _I._ _I think,_ they say. Your body laughs. Do they think the Voice does not hear them, when they speak? Do they believe their rank makes them _exempt_ , or special? They have aided the Song, yes, but they could just as quickly be expunged from it. The Ego has no place in the Song. There are no soloists in the Chorus.

 

Something grabs you by the arm. Your body cries out in protest, calling help, and only then do you realize all the adults have wandered off. No one hears you exclaim, in hoarse and choked voice, asking for your parents,  _ someone _ to help! The chords  _ thrum _ with the sound of sin, a clanging that should put the whole town to your aid. A club kid is holding your head, their eyes boring into your eyes with a sharp pain, and your shoulders try to wrench your gaze away, but they hold your arm so tight you  _ can't. _ Burning takes your body over, lighting its nerves on fire, the Song swells, and in the finale of the struggle, its last True Thought is  _ No! _

 

And then it's gone. You don't hear the Song anymore.

 

"Thanks," you sign, slow. You're dizzy. You grab onto the splintering fence at the same time Xaviul grabs your arm. Xaviul revived you.

 

"Are you okay?" he asks. You nod. You don't say anything. You never say much, so he doesn't notice a change. Once assured, he lets go.

 

"We need to go," he says. "Anya has the binder."

 

Back to running, then. You pull a wood spline from your palm, tossing it to the side, and pull yourself up. You're badly hurt, but you fish your last energy bar from your pocket. Xaviul nods, reassured, and you start off again.

 

Long after you leave, you think about this night every morning in your sleep.

 

You wonder if the Shape still remembers your absence.


	10. Cry Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask questions if you don't want answers, unless you're asking questions with the express purpose of pissing off literally everyone else in the club.
> 
> Dinnertime conversation breaks the tension before missions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a LOT of other characters here because I wanted to make this piece _feel_ like it was "lived in". Most of these characters have appeared in smaller groups, but between missions, I imagine the whole big group hangs out together, and I wanted to highlight the found family aspect of that.
> 
> However, it will make my credits really long, so I'm going to put them at the end. Please, if you like this piece, go check out the other authors I'm linking here! They're all fucking incredible.

The hours before sunset are always the wildest, but for once, it has nothing to do with the cult in Redacre.

 

"Hey Archer," Xaviul starts, breaking the quiet of a relatively peaceful dinner.

 

Before they can finish, Sophie is already interrupting. " _ Please _ no, not again!"

 

"I just have a question."

 

Sophie muscles their way to the door of the boxcar. "Yeah right! Just a question!" And to the latest recruit, a soft-faced kid of 13, they say, "get out while you can."

 

"Too late," you've written on the notebook, and you hold it up for Sophie to see. When they turn around, Archer is calling on Xaviul like a schoolteacher.

 

"What's your question?"

 

"What are the coyotes doing in Redacre?"

 

Archer, all at once, comes to life. "I've been working on that recently, that's a great question!"

 

"No it isn't," Sophie interjects, though from their tone they know they've been defeated.

 

All of a sudden, the bulletin board is twice as busy as it was five seconds ago. Archer uses every single pushpin, and sometimes has to double them up.

 

"The coyotes have been out for a while, and it's hard to say exactly where they came from. Xaviul's Wikipedia-"

 

"It's not mine."

 

"- says their natural range is much further south, which makes them an invasive species here. Unfortunately, this works out in their favor! There's a lot of great reasons to live in Redacre, and the relative safety of living here seems to benefit them too."

 

From seemingly  _ nowhere, _ Archer produces a skein of red yarn, and starts attaching it to the pushpins. However, after pinning down the first end, he pauses, and says "Oh." "Hm" soon follows, as he realizes he would need a third hand to operate the scissors.

 

Sophie heaves a sigh much too huge for their height, and drags themselves to the stage, where they hold Archer's yarn bundle. He grins, snips the first string, and picks right back up.

"You can see here that the Animal Control trucks have been strategically placed in Redacre, giving them a perfect vantage point on every block. Interesting!"  _ Snip. _ "And coyotes normally scream, it's one of their hallmark traits. We haven't heard any screams, have we?"  _ Snip. _ This piece of yarn leads to a scrap of notebook paper that reads, "SCREAMING???"

"What are you suggesting?" you ask. You pair your written question with a curious look. "Do you think the coyotes are fake...?"

"On the contrary!" Archer declares, throwing his finger in the air like Sherlock Holmes. He pulls the last string of yarn to the conclusion of his spiderweb map, a crude drawing of a four-legged dog-creature wearing ski goggles and a tactical belt. "The coyotes are real, and they're  _ spies!" _

Xaviul snorts, and the rest of the audience barely contains laughter. Sophie looks like their eyes are going to roll out of their head.

"Think about it! Have you seen any evidence of the coyotes? Footprints, feces, unfinished food?"

"Nope," Tan supplies. "Not a thing, not once."

Archer nods enthusiastically. "Right! It's clear that the cult has trained them to be elite observers in the town, and they hide in the shadows to watch us and report. I believe they're equipped with cameras on their tracking collars, like on National Geographic, so the Lucids can see everything they see. How else do they know where to patrol? How  _ else _ do they know how to be in  _ just _ the right place?"

"It's called dumb luck," Anya pipes up, from where she's sitting next to Xav.

" _ Or _ conspiracy!" Archer helpfully adds. "Now I have yet to get photographic evidence of their scouts, but if you look at the data, it's clear that all signs point to this intensive animal training program. Speak-"

" _ Shhhhh!" _ comes the chorus of kids, and Archer realizes his error.

"Right, uh. Bubbles!" Tan has never looked prouder. "Bubbles is  _ obsessed _ with preserving the past, and what animal did humans domesticate, many years ago? Dogs! Training dogs  _ again _ would only make too much sense, and dogs could track us by scent  _ and _ sound, way better than humans could. The cult gives them food, shelter and safety, and they get rewarded for scouting."

He slaps his hand against the bulletin board, and it shakes the wall of the boxcar. "It just adds up!"

 

There's a small round of applause, by only a few kids. Most just look more bewildered than when he started. Archer, undeterred, says, "And if anyone  _ does _ see them, get a picture for me! Great research can never be done alone."

"What if you never get a picture?" Bella asks. "What then?"

"Then I guess a true researcher's job is never finished," Archer answers, and it sounds so final that no one bothers to argue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Xaviul Neptune](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Original%20Character\(s\)%20-%20Xaviul%20Neptune) belongs to [xavi1ul.]() You can read more about him in [pigeonfancier's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonfancier/pseuds/pigeonfancier) fic, here: [**like a fire in the dark**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18054875)
> 
> [Sophie St. Cloud](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Sophie%20\(Original%20TBC%20Character\)) [[Alt]](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Sophie%20St*d*%20Cloud) belongs to [Darkforesttrails.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkforesttrails/pseuds/Darkforesttrails) You can read more about them in their fic, here: **[There Are Worse Things In The Dark.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18064409)**
> 
> [Archer Folley](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Archer%20Folley%20\(Original%20TBC%20Character\)) belongs to [Skegulium.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skegulium/pseuds/Skegulium) You can read more about him in their fic, here: **[Let Us Be Bold.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18022100)**
> 
> [Lavanya "Anya" Littlefeather](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Original%20Character\(s\)%20-%20Lavanya%20Littlefeather) belongs to [pigeonfancier.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonfancier/pseuds/pigeonfancier) Read more about her here: [**like a fire in the dark**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18054875) and [her "audio log" diary, **waterdrumming.**](https://waterdrumming.tumblr.com)
> 
> [Angela Tan](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Angela%20Tan) belongs to [tangelotime.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangelotime/pseuds/tangelotime) You can read more about them in their fic, here: **[Identity Theft.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633808/chapters/44187004)** tangelotime also wrote a lovely Stalker POV fic, unrelated to Tan, here: [**Eyes That Watch.**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18400403)
> 
> [Annabel "Bella" Lee](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Annabel%20Lee%20\(Original%20TBC%20Character\)) belongs to [be11amy.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/be11amy/pseuds/be11amy) They feature briefly in [tangelotime's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangelotime/pseuds/tangelotime) fic, **[Identity Theft.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633808/chapters/44187004)**


	11. Call Houston

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every time you wake up sweating, somewhere out there, a Stalker just got their ass kicked.
> 
> Sophie and Astro face down a traitor, and pick up the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sophie St. Cloud](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Sophie%20\(Original%20TBC%20Character\)) [[Alt]](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Sophie%20St*d*%20Cloud) belongs to [Darkforesttrails.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkforesttrails/pseuds/Darkforesttrails) You can read more about them in their fic, here: **[There Are Worse Things In The Dark.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18064409)**

Sophie is 4'11", and 110 lbs of kick-ass. You're pretty sure if the closest judo lessons weren't miles away from Redacre, they would fit right in.

 

"Jerk," they mutter, as they pull the zip tie tighter than strictly necessary. The stalker is still out. You think they'll be out for a while, judging by the force of your blow. You don't  _ need _ to tie their hands, not explicitly, but if, somehow, unconsciousness lets the Shape possess them, you don't want to deal with  _ another _ enemy. You already have a town full of them!

 

"They were awake, right?" you ask.

 

"They looked like it. Have you ever seen a sleepwalker move that fast?"

 

You shrug. Sleepers can be pretty quick when they're on the hunt. It's kind of terrifying. "Then... why?"

 

"They probably got bribed with that cocoa the Lucids keep promising us." You snort, but Sophie is truly bitter. They wipe dirt off their face and look back at their captive. "You don't recognize them, do you?"

 

You sign a quick "no", pinching your fingers together. Nothing about them is familiar, but it's hard to say in the dark. Your answer is aspirational: no, you  _ hope _ you don't recognize them.

 

When Sophie stands, you notice something in the grass next to them. "Wait," you sign. You approach it cautiously at first, as if it were a bomb, despite seeing clearly that it isn't: It's a pinkish folder, full of papers, just laying there. They must have dropped it... but the thing that gives you pause is the iconic, bright-red eye, splashed across the cover, staring back at you.

 

"What is  _ that? _ " Sophie whispers. You can't answer, because your hands have already closed around the folder. You take it from the ground, looking everywhere  _ but _ at the eye - and when the sky doesn't fall, Sophie takes that as fair game to pluck it from you. "Who carries a  _ file folder _ ? These papers could fall out!"

 

There's a CD tacked to the front with tape, and you peel it off to look it over, peering through the fuzzy plastic sleeve. When you press the plastic down against the disc, permanent marker scribbles become clear, and fear coils in your chest. You grab Sophie's sleeve and show them what you found: Today's date.

 

They open the folder. You look, too. You've never watched a train crash, but you assume  _ this _ is what your books meant when they mentioned it. You want to look away, but you can't, even when the pages inside have school photos of you and Sophie, paper-clipped to the top, even when the print of the pages told your stalker exactly how to find you.

 

"How did they know this?" Sophie asks no one in particular. "Are they in the club?" They hardly finish their sentence before you're signing "no" multiple times, but the sinking feeling in your heart is  _ yes. _ They  _ had _ to know. Both of you are runaway kids. No one else would have heard you sleep-talking, and no one outside the club  _ knew _ what you were doing.

 

They feel it too. They shut the folder. You didn't know it was possible to  _ slam _ folders until today. Something is wrong. Someone is watching you, and the feeling of eyes on your back has your skin absolutely crawling.

 

"You got a light?"

 

You fumble for your pocket, blind at first, until you tear your eyes away from the Stalker long enough to look. It's here somewhere. You know it. When your fingers close around the cool metal, bending to the curved shell, you yank it from the fabric and hold it out to Sophie.

 

The "use it wisely" is implied - and by god, do they. They glare hard at the Stalker, with a fire you've never seen burn quite so hot, and hand the CD sleeve to you.

 

"Hold this," they direct you, and you do. Then they turn their face to the starlit sky, close their eyes, and flick the lighter open, right under the folder. The flame catches instantly, enveloping the corner and crawling up the pink-red paper.

 

"Hey Thee-I-Dare," they pray. "Get a load of this."


	12. We Spread Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's easier to talk about things in the abstract, and easier to think about them when they're somewhere else. Even if they feel close enough to home to scare you, you can somehow take comfort in the fact that the threat close to you is the real thing you should be worried about.
> 
> Archer and Astro talk about a very unique fear, one that only finds root in Redacre.

The forest folds you into its shadows, inviting like a quilt in the cool summer night. You slip under the pine boughs and watch through their brushes as Hoadly street crawls with sleeping, unaware people.

 

"Did you see the article about Pando?" Archer asks you.

 

You shake your head. He keeps his eyes glued on the street, and so do you. Adults walk in and out of the warm bath of streetlamps, idle, searching.

 

"It's on Xaviul's Wikipedia." Archer has consumed every page he finds on that flash drive voraciously. He wants to know everything he can. He shuffles until he's sitting on his knees, so he almost measures up to you. "It's a really famous tree, sort of."

 

You give him a look.  _ Sort of? _ He doesn't know sign, and you don't want to fish your notebook out of your messenger bag right now, so you have to rely on your genuine bewilderment to ask him how a  _ tree _ could be famous. Trees are old hat to you! They're everywhere here, you live in a forest for christ's sake.

 

"It's one tree that makes up its own forest. The whole thing - it's all one organism, all branches off the same root."

 

His words settle on the first fallen leaves, August's herald in the Appalachian range. Beneath them, you both unconsciously look for the forms of old, gnarled roots that dig into the earth below you. You wonder a question you've asked countless times, but never quite like this:  _ How deep does it go? _

"Different places, same root," Archer breathes, his eyes coming back to meet yours. "Same tree. One trunk could die. Chop down one arm of it, but the rest still stands." There's a chill crawling up your spine that is too bone-deep to come from the wind. From the way his eyes dart back out to the street, he feels it too. "Even wildfires - they burn down the trunks, or stems, technically, but the roots just sprout new ones when the fire burns out."

You grab his attention back. It's a tap on the shoulder, and he jumps at first, but when you don't keep your hand there, he lowers the flashbang he reached for. This calls for your notebook. It's important enough, you think. You flip it to an open page, and there, in the dark, you write, "how big?"

"Acres," he confesses, and it feels like awe. "A hundred of 'em. 106, I think?"

"It's a tree," you write. "Dig up the root."

"It would take  _ days, _ Astro. Weeks!"

"We can take days."

He's frustrated. Your answers aren't comforting him, and they certainly aren't giving him the drive to do something about it. He just feels intimidated. What good is that?

You open to a new page. "106 acres is a lot. But every other acre in the world is not like that. The globe is very big."

He snorts, air blowing his too-long purple streak. He pushes it back behind his ear. He needs a haircut. "40,000 kilometers, to be exact."

"40,000 - 106. That's what the Big Tree can't reach."

"Those are two different units, Astro, you can't -" you give him a look, as if to ask,  _ really? _ "Okay." He concedes. "I see your point, even so."

"My point is this," you write, and you turn to show it to him. "There is hope. There must be. If they can do it out there - live without this - then we can too. We will do the best we can to get there."

"Even if it takes weeks?"

 

You nod. "Months. Years."

His eyes widen, and you smirk. "I don't know about  _ years. _ I  _ hope _ not years, right?"

You just shrug, and shove your notebook back into your bag. Simple. Concise. You heft up your flashbang, and look at the gaggle of Sleepers between you and your next objective.

_ Time to go? _ You ask him, pointing towards the open street.

He muscles up, as much as a kid with his build can, sets his jaw, and mimics you. "Now or never, I suppose."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Archer Folley](https://archiveofourown.org/tags/Archer%20Folley%20\(Original%20TBC%20Character\)) belongs to [Skegulium.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skegulium/pseuds/Skegulium) You can read more about him in their fic, here: **[Let Us Be Bold.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18022100)**
> 
>  _Pando (Latin for "I spread out"), also known as the trembling giant, is a clonal colony of an individual male quaking aspen (Populus tremuloides) determined to be a single living organism by identical genetic markers and assumed to have one massive underground root system._ [[Source]](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pando_\(tree\))


End file.
